


Notting Hellmouth

by snowpuppies



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ats Birthday Verse, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpuppies/pseuds/snowpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dawn Summers' favorite fantasy walks into the door of her shop. Takes place in an AU Birthday 'Verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notting Hellmouth

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lamia Archer for [livejournal.com profile] femslash_minis's R86 – Fandom Tropes and Clichés . The cliché was Film Fic, obviously inspired by Notting Hill, one of the few "romantic comedies" that falls on my faves list.
> 
> Beta'd by [personal profile] velvetwhip. Title is also thanks to her wonderfulness. :)

  
  
  
  
  


**Notting Hellmouth**

  
  
  
She's had this fantasy before. Perfect, wonderful Cordelia Chase walks into the shop, bouncy hair swinging with each step, high heels clacking against the concrete, movie-star smile pasted against flawless, tanned skin.  
  
What usually follows is accompanied by sweeping orchestral interludes and soft romantic lighting, the press of soft lips against her own, a smooth hand against her cheek, slim waist beneath her fingertips.  
  
Passion. Desire. Need.  
  
But the script's changed somehow, and she's beginning to think…beginning to wonder…  
  
  
…because this time, there's no orchestra, no kisses.  
  
  
She hasn't been swept off her feet; instead, she's behind the counter, watching Cordelia poke around a display of chalices and decorative cauldrons.  
  
The conclusion rapidly forming in her brain is that this is all _real_.  
  
Cordelia Chase—the real, _live_ Cordelia Chase—is in her shop…and she's elbow-deep in newt livers.  
  
 _Naturally._  
  
Yelping, she jerks away from the vat, floundering for several moments between the urge to say 'hello' or something equally embarrassing and the need to wash her hand to stop the steady drip on the glass display cases.  
  
Finally, her brain kicks in and she stutters out an apology or an excuse or perhaps the third blessing of Brighid—she's not really sure—and scrambles into the back room to clean up.  
  
She blinks into the mirror, acutely aware of how she looks—hair in a ratty bun, drips of newt juice on her top, pale in a way that loudly proclaims that she spends most her time indoors with her nose buried in a dusty tome rather than outside with the rest of the world—and sighs. She contemplates unpinning her hair, but thinks the benefits won't outweigh the damage done by hiding in the bathroom any longer.  
  
Taking a deep breath and reminding herself that she's a successful business owner and one of the top sources of obscure occult rituals and rites for people all over the country, she re-enters the shop.  
  
 _She's_ standing near a display of touristy jewelry, manicured fingers tracing the crystals and etched runes.  
  
"Hey, Cordy."  
  
Cordelia turns, eyebrow cocked.  
  
"Do I know you?"  
  
"Uhm. Dawn. Summers."  
  
Cordy purses her lips.  
  
"You know, from Sunnydale?"  
  
"Oh! Oh. That's right—Buffy's little sister."  
  
She forces a smile; she thought she'd left that particular designation behind when she left Sunnydale, but it seems she'll forever be known as 'Buffy's little sister.'  
  
"That's me."  
  
"And you work here?"  
  
"Uh. Yeah, it's my shop. I, uh, try to help out, with the Slaying and all, so I do the heavy book-lifting and such."  
  
"Hmm." Cordy looks away, eyes scanning the shelves.  
  
Dawn cringes; she's been meaning to dust for a while now, but she just got in a shipment of rare Havastesh writings last week, and she's been absorbed in translating, barely remembering to come up to breathe and eat, let alone do something as mundane as cleaning.  
  
She might regret it now.  
  
"So, what're you doing in this part of the country? Not to complain, but Cleveland hardly seems like a vacation spot."  
  
"Oh, you know. Had a break in filming, and my boyfriend's got family here."  
  
"Oh. That's right. You're seeing what's-his-face."  
  
Cordelia's smile is clearly fake.  
  
"Yeah. That's him." She places one of the more expensive necklaces on the counter, Amethyst glinting dully in the yellow light. "I'll take this one."  
  
"Oh. You don't…I mean, that's really for tourists. It won't really do anything, see?" She holds up the amulet. "Look, Laguz is backwards, and—"  
  
The amulet is removed from her hand.  
  
"Really, I want this one."  
  
"I can order something better," she offers, reaching for the stack of catalogs on the back counter.  
  
"No, thanks. This is what I want."  
  
"Well," she shrugs, "if you're sure." She takes the necklace and reads the price off the tag before wrapping and bagging it. Faulty it may be, but it's easily the most beautiful one on the rack; it's plain to see Cordy hasn't lost her good taste.  
  
Well, most of it.  
  
"Thanks for visiting," she says as she hands Cordelia the bag. Cordy barely gives her a glance before she's clacking out of the shop like she's spotted a sale at Neiman's. "Come back," she offers, but the jingle of the bell indicates it's too late; Cordelia's gone.  
  
Slumping, Dawn inadvertently sticks her elbow in the newt livers.  
  
"Well, shit."  
  
  
***  
  
  
"Are you sure it was her?" Andrew turns to put his casserole in the oven and she takes the opportunity to sneak a piece of chicken and pop it into her mouth.  
  
"How many times do I have to tell you yes?" she mumbles around the mouthful.  
  
"I just wonder, that's all." He collects the dirty dishes, smacking her hand when she tries for another bite, and places them in the sink. "I mean, it's really weird that she's here."  
  
"Don't you think _you_ would recognize her?"  
  
"Well, yes, but—"  
  
"But what?"  
  
"But I haven't had a crush on her the size of a Norwegian N'Glockthar for the past, oh, ten years."  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
"Hey." His voice drops into a soothing murmur as he takes her by the shoulders and steers her to the sofa. "I was just joking. I guess I thought you'd gotten over it by now."  
  
"Me, too." She sniffles. His arm slides around her shoulder, and it's not remotely what she wants, but it's warm and she settles into the touch.  
  
"Guess there's just one thing to do."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Girls' night!" He wriggles happily.  
  
"Oh God."  
  
  
***  
  
  
In spite of her trepidation, Girls' Night helps—but then, who can go wrong with banana and marshmallow pizza and the umpteenth viewing of  Firefly?—and she's able to return to work the next day feeling like a grown woman instead of a small, skinny girl with too-big eyes and stick-straight hair.  
  
She allows herself to fall into the rhythm of research, poring over her collection, thick parchment beneath her fingers, the familiar smell of old glue and dust soothing her and lulling her into a hypnotic state that lasts over a week.  
  
She's all but forgotten about her strange visitor when she finally snaps out of her book-coma, her stomach growling in protest. She's eaten of course—shoveled down a bag of chips or an order of fries, anything she could eat left-handed so she could continue scrawling notes and turning pages with the right, whenever Andrew came in and set it in front of her, but as far as real food? It's been a while, and her body isn't happy about it.  
  
She flips the cover of the biggest tome shut, stands, and stretches.  
  
Glad for the exercise and fresh air, she walks the three blocks to the nearest eatery, a food truck selling everything from fish tacos to mac and cheese, and orders two vegan chilies to go.  
  
The enticing scent is too much and she pops open one of the cartons, digging in as she strolls back to the shop.  
  
Since she's Dawn Summers and the universe hates her, she naturally collides with a fellow pedestrian, sending chili down both their blouses.  
  
Further proof that the universe despises her? The pedestrian is Cordelia Chase.  
  
  
***  
  
  
"Really?" She sighs, pushing the door closed behind Cordelia.  
  
Andrew is still stretched out on the sofa, dead to the world in his Dungeons and Dragons boxers, a Strong Bad t-shirt and a purple feather boa.  
  
Must have been a wild night.  
  
"He belong to you?" Cordelia wrinkles her nose and it's not cute.  
  
Not at all.  
  
"Uh. Yeah. I mean, no. He's my roommate. Andrew," she slaps him on the calf, "wake up."  
  
"Huh?" He blinks, grimacing. If his mouth tastes anything like the way his breath smells, she knows why. "Oh. Hey, it's the lovely Cordelia Chase."  
  
"Wait. You're…Tucker's brother."  
  
"Yes." He rolls his eyes and falls dramatically backwards. "It's my cross to bear."  
  
"Anywho," Dawn interrupts, grabbling Cordy's arm and pulling her toward the bedroom, "I've got some stuff you can borrow in the closet."  
  
Shutting the bedroom door behind Cordy's retreating back, she turns to Andrew, popping him on the thigh.  
  
"Get up."  
  
"Ow, woman."  
  
"You're an embarrassment. Go put on some pants!"  
  
"I'm reasonably sure," Andrew counters, yawning and rubbing his eyes, "that she's seen a man in boxers before."  
  
"I know where you keep your autographed Picard flute."  
  
"You wouldn't."  
  
She raises an eyebrow in reply; control is easy when you have a supergeek for a roommate.  
  
"You know, I think I'm just gonna go put on pants."  
  
"I thought so."  
  
He runs up the stairs just as Cordelia comes from the bedroom.  
  
Dawn stares; on her, the knock-off printed top looks…so-so, but on Cordy? It's ready for the runway. She tries to ignore the little thrill that runs down her spine at the thought of Cordelia wearing _her_ clothes.  
  
"Here."  
  
She starts as Cordy stuffs a bundle into her arms, looking down and realizing its Cordelia's other top, still smeared with chili.  
  
"Oh. I…I'll wash this. I'm sure I can get it—"  
  
"Don't bother." One finely shaped brow arches. "If you can get it clean, you can have it. I won't wear it again." With that, Cordy turns to inspect the kitchen, expression somewhere between polite interest and genuine curiosity.  
  
"Uhm. You want something to eat? Or drink?" Dawn bites her lip, mentally reviewing the contents of her pantry; she doesn't think canned tuna and a box of stale saltines is going to make the cut. "Oh! I have chocolate." She scurries over to the cabinet and pulls out the forbidden, slightly metallic colored bag.  
  
"Oh my god!" Cordelia looks horrified. Dawn looks down curiously; does Cordy prefer dark chocolate? "Are you trying to ruin my figure? _And_ my face?"  
  
"Oh. I'm so sorry, Cordy, I didn't think. I'll just put it away—"  
  
"Oh, just give it here." The bag is snatched from her hands and Cordy rips into it, snagging a square and popping it into her mouth. "Oh. My. God."  
  
Dawn wants to capture Cordy's moan with her lips. Instead, she fills her mouth with chocolate, swirling the swiftly melting creamy goodness around her tongue.  
  
Cordy plucks another square from the bag before shoving it toward Dawn.  
  
"Take this. I'm going to have to run an extra mile on the treadmill as it is."  
  
Dawn puts the bag away and turns again, just in time to see Cordy pop a chocolate smeared finger between her lips.  
  
So not fair.  
  
Cordy grins—not the movie star, pose-for-the-camera smile, but a real, happy, hint of mischief _grin_ —and Dawn can't help answering the expression. They smile, wordlessly, and Dawn waits for it to become awkward, but before she can stick her foot in her mouth again, Cordelia gasps.  
  
"Shit! Is that the time? I'm _so_ gonna be late."  
  
Reeling at the rapidity of Cordelia's mood changes, Dawn follows her to the door, surprised when Cordy stops in the entry and turns.  
  
"Dawn." Cordelia's voice is softer, carrying a hint of emotion that Dawn doesn't recognize.  
  
"Cordy."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Welcome. Any time, really. I mean, you can just drop by when you're in the neighborhood. Not that you're here often, but, you know, when you are…my casa is su—" She stops abruptly when Cordelia's lips close over her own and a soft, moist tongue laps at the corner.  
  
She blinks. Once. Twice. Licks her lips.  
  
"You had…chocolate," Cordy explains, gesturing toward Dawn's face.  
  
"Oh." She touches the spot, not sure if it still feels like her own skin.  
  
"So. I've probably got to go."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So. Yeah." Cordy turns the doorknob. "Nice seeing you, Dawn."  
  
"You, too." She watches as the door closes, still fingering her lips.  
  
That really happened.  
  
  
"Okay, spill girlfriend. I need _all_ the details."  
  
"Andrew!"  
  
"Hey, I put on pants for this! You owe me."  
  
"Fine."  
  
  
***  
  
  
Biting her lip, she examines her newest display of candles: a flock of plain, white tapers mixed in with scented pillars in sage, cedar, and cookie dough—perhaps not the most "occult" of scents, but whatever turns a profit.  
  
Sometimes she really misses Anya.  
  
Flattening the now empty box, she turns and nearly runs into Cordelia. Again.  
  
At least this time she's only wielding cardboard and not messy, tomato-based foods.  
  
"Oh, hey."  
  
"Hey Dawn." Cordelia smirks. "Nice sweater."  
  
She looks down and feels her face flush; she's wearing Cordy's top, the one that had only taken three hours and four different types of detergent to clean.  
  
"What can I say? I've got taste." The quip falls from her lips before she can think and she's rewarded with a wry smile.  
  
"Yeah," Cordy answers, expression softening, "you do."  
  
"So," she clears her throat, "uhm, was there something you needed? You sure you don't want to return that necklace?" she asks, gesturing toward the pendant hanging against Cordelia's chest.  
  
"Nope. I like it." Cordy grips the amulet with a closed fist before tucking it into her neckline.  
  
"Oh. Good."  
  
"Yeah." Cordy glances around the store, flipping dark tresses over her shoulder. "So you never said why Cleveland?"  
  
"Well, there's a Hellmouth here—"  
  
"No kidding. A little slice of home-sweet-hell, right on your doorstep."  
  
"Yeah. So some of the crew is around now—we're a bit spread out, since, you know, all the potentials got all slayer-y."  
  
"Huh. I hadn't heard."  
  
"Yeah. It was a thing. Same old bat time, same old bat apocalypse. But anyways, I uh, mainly do research—prophesies, lore...I do some weapons collecting, as well. That's in the back room. We have to keep them away from the front of the store. You wouldn't believe the number of teenagers who come in here."  
  
"Hadn't really thought about it."  
  
"Yeah, well, insurance is a bitch."  
  
"I'll take your word for it. So say, I was wondering...Brian's at a meeting and I'm bored out of my mind. You wanna maybe go get some coffee? If you're not busy, that is." Cordelia takes a cursory glance around the empty store.  
  
Dawn's not going to pee her pants. Totally not.  
  
And the girly squealing is completely out.  
  
  
Of course, her big toe is wriggling happily, and why wouldn't it? Not that it's like, a _date_ or anything, but it's...well, it's something, and—  
  
  
"You don't have to at all; I just thought we'd catch up. It can—"  
  
"Yes!" She blurts out with a squeak. "I mean, that sounds great. Give me ten minutes to close up?"  
  
  
***  
  
  
"—and then he said, 'Wait, don't go inside.'"  
  
Cordelia cracks up, throwing her head back and letting her laughter fill the cafe. Dawn's heart doesn't stir at the sight at all.  
  
Who is she kidding? She's gone from schoolgirl fantasy-crush to head-over-heels in a little over a week. She's _so_ screwed.  
  
And not in the please-sir-may-I-have-some-more way.  
  
"So what did you do?" Cordy's eyes light up in curiosity.  
  
"Well, I did what any Hellmouth-raised girl would do. I threw a bottle of holy water in his face and ran."  
  
"Oh, God. You didn't!"  
  
"Yeah." Ok, so she's putting her social faux pas on display to get Cordelia to smile. Sue her. "But—and here's the real kicker—he showed up the next day, and—Wait. Is that really the time?"  
  
They've been sitting, nursing cappuccinos and espresso brownies for nearly five hours.  
  
"Oh. Wow. We've been here a long time."  
  
"Shit. I mean, not that this wasn't fun, but...I totally had an errand to run before this evening and I'm so gonna get the worst sister of the year award." She slumps, gathering the mess they've made of their table into a neat pile.  
  
"What's going on?" Even with that concerned-wrinkled brow, Cordelia is so beautiful.  
  
"Buffy's birthday party is in—" she checks her watch as she stands, "—thirty minutes. I have to pick up the cake, and I was supposed to grab something for a present this afternoon, and now I barely have time to get the cake... Crap!"  
  
"Hey, just breathe," Cordy says in her ear, her voice soft and meant to be soothing, but the part of Dawn that isn't panicking about the party is just turned on. Cordelia's hand is warm around her arm as she leads them both out of the cafe. "Now which way to the cake?"  
  
They speed-walk to the bakery, Cordy's hand a firm presence curved around her bicep, and Dawn spends most of the journey in a daze, because she blinks and they're there. She goes to the counter to pick up the order, vaguely aware of Cordelia digging through her purse at the table next to her.  
  
A pen and a blank business card are thrust under her nose as she turns to go. She blinks.  
  
"Wha?"  
  
"Here. Sign this."  
  
"What am I signing?" She bends to obey, scrawling her name with a flourish.  
  
"The gift tag."  
  
"Uh, Cordy, I don't have a gift, so I really don't need a tag."  
  
"Yes you do." Cordelia pulls the scarf from her neck and handily folds it into a neat square. She takes the card from Dawn's unresisting fingers and ties the whole thing together with a length of ribbon.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"Gift wrap is included. Here you go." Cordy shoves the package into Dawn's hands.  
  
"Cordy, I can't take this."  
  
"Sure you can. Today's the first day I've worn it and I _know_ Buffy will love it."  
  
"Duh," Dawn mutters, fingering the super-soft fabric. "But this isn't my present."  
  
"It is now."  
  
"Cordy, I can't pay for this, it's—"  
  
"Emilio Pucci. I know. It's a gift. And typically I frown on re-gifting, but in this case, I think you can make an exception."  
  
"Cordelia—" Her protest is cut short when Cordy snatches the package from her hands and removes the tag. Dawn watches as she adds her own name to the tag.  
  
"There." The scarf is pressed against her chest and she looks down; the card now reads _To Buffy, From Dawn & Cordy_.  
  
 _Dawn & Cordy_. Like they're a...  
  
"You realize this means you have to come."  
  
Cordelia tilts her head consideringly, one slim finger tracing the lower edge of her lip.  
  
"Okay. I'll be your date. It could be fun, seeing the old gang. And with the way celebrations always go with your sister around, I might get to brush up on my vamp dusting skills."  
  
Cordelia continues to chatter as they exit the shop, but Dawn's brain is stuck, one thought circling 'round and 'round.  
  
 _A date?_ And then she's sure she's possessed, because her mouth opens and the words just pour out.  
  
"I hope you put out."  
  
Cordelia pauses in her monologue, dark eyes examining Dawn's face. A moment passes. Then, with a snort, Cordelia begins to laugh.  
  
Bullet successfully dodged.  
  
Now to face Buffy with Cordelia on her arm. Where's a nice apocalypse when you need one?  
  
  
***  
  
  
As it turns out, no vampire-dusting skills have been needed.  
  
However, Cordelia most certainly puts out.  
  
The breath is forced from her lungs as she's slammed against the front door; what little oxygen she has left is stolen when Cordelia's mouth covers her own, lips hungrily kneading, tongue delving in with teasing licks, hands fisted in her hair.  
  
Her fantasies have nothing on the actuality of Cordy's lips.  
  
She lurches forward, arms curving around a narrow waist, pressing bodies closer until their breasts are touching; she can feel Cordelia's nipples as they brush against her own. Her hand slides down to Cordy's hip, giving the supple flesh a squeeze on its way down...  
  
Just as a masculine voice interrupts.  
  
"Oh, don't mind me. I'm just here to catch the late show."  
  
Dawn's heart plummets as Cordelia breaks away and turns toward their audience.  
  
"Out."  
  
"Hey, it's my house!"  
  
Cordelia raises an eyebrow; Andrew crosses his arms over his chest.  
  
"I'm half-way through with season three of Voyager. I'm not stopping now."  
  
"Fine." Cordelia's voice is short and Dawn prepares herself for rejection, but then Cordy turns her way, face softening. "You coming?" She gestures toward the bedroom as she backs away, teasing grin spreading across her face.  
  
Dawn can't move quickly enough.  
  
  
***  
  
  
She wakes to a tickling sensation along her ribs, flinching and swatting at the annoyance in half-consciousness. Her hand is caught before she can make contact, and as her fingers are pulled into a wet, warm mouth, her eyes pop open.  
  
"Mmmmm. Good morning."  
  
Cordy doesn't answer with words; her tongue sweeps between two of the digits, teasing the sensitive skin, and Dawn gets the message.  
  
With a laugh, she dives under the covers. It's dark and smells of sex and Cordelia's perfume. She inhales deeply as she moves down Cordy's body, nose brushing the swell below a navel, cheek rubbing against the soft curls, until she's just where she's imagined being for years.  
  
She's just getting started, Cordelia's thighs closing gently around her, the scent—the feel—of Cordy against her lips, tongue, coating her palate, when the shrill trill of a cell phone rings.  
  
"Oh, hey." She hears Cordy answer from her nest among the blankets as a hand finds her, fingers wrapping in her hair. Instead, however, of pulling her closer—echoes of last night—she's being pulled away, and the blankets are peeled back and she's watching as Cordelia crawls off the bed, grabbing her clothes from the floor, the chair, the lamp as she goes. "Really? You're kidding! Oh my God. Oh My God! I can't...how did you...?" Feeling like this might go on a while, Dawn follows suit, slipping from the bed and reaching for a robe. "Oh, you are getting _such_ a reward." She hopes that doesn't mean what she thinks it means. "Yeah. Uh huh. Oh, God. I can't believe it, still. Okay. Talk to you later. Love you, too. Bye." Cordy flips the phone shut and slides on her shoes while squealing.  
  
"So..."  
  
"Oh my God, Dawn! That was Brian. He just heard back from his agent, who spoke to my agent, who spoke to the producers, and—I can't believe it—I've got an audition! Me!"  
  
"Don't you have lots of those?" Dawn sinks to the bed. She's beginning to think this isn't going to turn out like she'd hoped. At all.  
  
"Yeah, but those are all small potatoes. Cheesy Action, Romantic Comedies, but this... _this_ is...Dawn, it's Ang Lee. I can't...I mean, oh my God, what am I going to wear?"  
  
Cordy's fumbling in her purse, ducking down to look in the vanity while ruffling her hair with one hand and applying lipstick with the other. Dawn approaches, hands finding the curve of her waist.  
  
"That's awesome, but...I mean, it doesn't mean you have to go now, right?"  
  
"Are you kidding?" Cordelia pulls away; Dawn's hands fist by her sides. "I've got to find an outfit, and talk to my agent, and...Crap! I need a haircut. Are those split ends?" With a final grimace in the mirror, Cordelia zips her purse and heads to the door. Gone is any trace of the goddess who spent the night between Dawn's sheets—rumpled and ravenous and _hers_ —what's left is the movie star, every hair in place, perfect, untouchable.  
  
Dawn slumps against the door frame.  
  
"I guess...I'll see you."  
  
"Dawn," Cordelia pauses in her frantic escape, regret crossing her face. "This was..." She shrugs. "...but it's..."  
  
"Yeah." She forces the words out past the knot in her throat. "I get it."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
The door closes, and Cordelia's gone.  
  
  
***  
  
  
She's slogging through the fourth verse of a Videan prophesy related to an apocalypse occurring sometime between the present and the year 2052—and could they vague it up any more?—when a greasy sack lands in her lap. She yelps, tossing it on the table to unsuccessfully wipe the stain from her jeans.  
  
"Andrew! What are you doing?"  
  
"Waking you up, mademoiselle."  
  
"I am awake, you moron." She scowls, poking curiously at the bag.  
  
"On the contrary, you've been sleep-walking, sleep-talking, sleep-researching, for the last five weeks. In short, you've been wallowing, and I'm here to snap you out of it."  
  
"Andrew." She sighs, finally opening the bag to find a greasy cheeseburger and fries; her stomach rumbles.  
  
"Hey, I get it. I really do. Your not-so-secret fantasy come to life sweeps you off your feet and then retreats as quickly as her Jimmy Choos can handle. It's got to be...devastating."  
  
"Melodramatic, much? I'm not devastated, I'm just..."  
  
"Inconsolable? Heartbroken? On the brink of self-destruction?"  
  
"Shut up." She throws the second volume of Videan phonemes at Andrew's head—it's rubbish anyhow; she could have written a more accurate treatise when she was a teenager—cracking a smile when he yelps.  
  
"There we go! You _can_ still smile." He beams and she can't help answering the expression.  
  
He's an insane drama queen who is _way_ too interested in her shoe collection, but he's a good friend.  
  
"I'm sorry. I've been neglecting you."  
  
"Well," he sighs. "I suppose you can make it up to me.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I'm thinking a marathon: Ben  & Jerry's, Orville Redenbacher, and The Lord of the Rings \- extended editions!"  
  
"Well..."  
  
"Or we could do Pirates. As long as Orlando's involved, I'm happy."  
  
Leaving the prophesy on the table, she stands and takes his outstretched hand.  
  
It's just a small apocalypse, anyway.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Andrew sets her up with Veronica, from the bakery down the street, and Buffy not-so-subtly tries to push her toward Jessica, the curvy blonde barista who—as Buffy puts it—makes the best iced caramel macchiato, _ever_ , and then there's the near-nuclear disaster when Xander suggests asking _Willow_ out after her fifth break-up with Kennedy this year, and no, she hasn't found anyone else that comes close, but she does manage to put all five of her boxed-DVD sets of  Cordy! in the garage-sale Faith organizes to raise money for new weaponry (and she's not even going to think about the suggestive leer Faith gave her when recounting some of her tales of prison life).  
  
All in all, she's doing well.  
  
Her heart's not broken.  
  
Not at all.  
  
She's fine.  
  
And if she keeps telling herself that, one day it might be true.  
  
Of course, life—miserable bitch that she is—likes to share the wealth, and it all comes crashing down.  
  
  
***  
  
  
She doesn't look up when the front door bell jingles; Andrew is on the floor and can handle the customers, and she's buried in a pile of receipts—she still hasn't found a spell to use at tax time—cursing her lack of organization. She finds the receipt she's looking for, examining the strange smudge on the bottom—it might be ketchup—as her office door opens.  
  
"Uh, Dawn."  
  
"I'm busy, Andrew. Hence the sign labeled 'Do Not Disturb' on the door."  
  
"Yeah, it's just...you have a visitor."  
  
"Tell them to come back."  
  
"Uh, I don't think she'll take 'no' for an answer. And frankly, I'm not gonna tell her that. She's scarier than you."  
  
She huffs, muttering under her breath, "And people wonder why I hired you," as she enters the store.  
  
"Hi, can I help... _you_."  
  
"Me." Cordelia smiles sheepishly, purse clutched in front of her body; she looks like a little girl. But Dawn's not falling for that one again.  
  
"What do you want?" She crosses her arms over her chest, and it's not to keep from reaching out to run her fingers through Cordy's silky tresses.  
  
"Well, I wanted to see you."  
  
"Hmm. I heard you didn't get the part."  
  
"What? Oh. That. No, but it's not a big—wasn't really right for me anyways." Cordy walks a few steps closer. "Dawn, I—"  
  
"Did you need something? A spell? Incense? A book?"  
  
"You?"  
  
The breath freezes in her chest. Hope begins to rise, but she beats it back. She won't do this to herself.  
  
"What about Brian?"  
  
"Brian's...he's...look, we haven't been together in over a month. I...I don't love him anymore."  
  
She doesn't look up; Cordelia has crossed the floor and is standing inches away. Dawn could reach out and touch...  
  
She turns away.  
  
"Sorry to hear about that."  
  
"I'm not. You're...God, you're making this hard."  
  
"What the hell, Cordy?" She whirls around, anger flooding her body. "You...you...you left. You played me, and...and...you left. You broke my heart." Her voice cracks on the last word and she tries to clamp down on the tears that well, but the wall has broken, and they tumble down her cheeks.  
  
"Dawn," Cordy's voice is soft as she crowds closer, arms slipping around Dawn's waist. "I'm so sorry."  
  
"I can't do this again, Cordelia." She tries to push away, but Cordy's stronger than she looks.  
  
"Please, _please_ Dawn, I'll make it up to you, just tell me how."  
  
"I don't know if you can, don't know if I can trust..."  
  
Cordelia's face falls and she lets go. "I'm so sorry."  
  
"Can you please just go?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll...just..." A smooth hand trails down her back before it disappears and Cordelia walks away.  
  
Again.  
  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
  
"Hey chica, where's your girl?" Andrew returns from his un-subtle absence in the warehouse, expectant look on his face.  
  
"Gone."  
  
"Gone? You mean?"  
  
"I told her to go, are you happy?" Her voice is snippy with hurt; she doesn't mean to take it out on him, but if he doesn't lay off, she might just snap.  
  
"Happy? No! I thought for sure she was on the level this time."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I just...after I read the article, I assumed..."  
  
"Article?"  
  
"Oh God."  
  
  
***  
  
  
She arrives just in time, skating past airport security while Andrew probably gets himself arrested, and careening through a crowd of suitcase-wielding tourists until she finds Gate E, where Cordelia is in line to board.  
  
"Cordy!" She yells, barreling over a man with a briefcase, eyes fixed on Cordelia, who turns, brown eyes lighting on her face. She leaps over a row of chairs and lands at Cordy's feet.  
  
"Dawn?"  
  
"Hey." _Eloquent, Summers._  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"I had to come, I mean, I didn't know...I...you came out. In  People."  
  
"Well, go big or go home, I guess."  
  
"But I don't understand. I mean your career."  
  
"Well, Hollywood's a changed animal, these days. Sure, there will be some parts I don't get, but...truthfully? In some circles, it's kinda _in_ , you know?"  
  
"I...I guess."  
  
"So, I'm guessing you didn't come all of this way to confirm my sexuality, or did you?" Cordelia grins.  
  
Hope flutters back to life; she lets it flourish.  
  
"I...I have to know. The woman...the one you mentioned..."  
  
"The special someone I wanted to keep as my own?"  
  
"Uh. Yeah." She feels so vulnerable, and she knows better than to think, but Cordy came all this way, and she can't go on not _knowing_. "Who...?"  
  
Cordelia crosses her arms and arches a brow. "Who do you think I was talking about?"  
  
"I...I don't know." Her shoes are suddenly very interesting.  
  
"God, I love you." She jerks at the words, eyes widening at the soft look in Cordy's eyes, and then they flutter closed because Cordelia's lips are against her own and they're kissing, really, truly kissing, and they're in public and people are looking and she thinks she hears the flash of a camera and this is really, really truly happening.  
  
Cordy pulls away, lips lingering just a moment before she speaks. "It's you. _Moron_."  
  
"Guess I'm your moron, then." She smiles.  
  
Cordelia's fingers capture her hand.  
  
"Come on. I've got a ticket to refund."  
  
She follows.  
  
"Oh, hey. On the way back, can we stop at the police station?"  
  
"Police station?"  
  
"Yeah. Andrew..." She gestures toward security, which is still reeling from Andrew's performance.  
  
Cordelia laughs.  
  
"Don't worry. I'll bail him out."  
  
  
***  
  
  
She wakes as the sun comes up. Cordelia's hair is in her mouth and her whole arm is dead where Cordy's head is pillowed.  
  
She presses a kiss to a sweaty brow.  
  
"Mmmmm. 'S too early."  
  
"Go back to sleep," she whispers, pulling her girl closer.  
  
She watches as Cordy drifts back to sleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _FIN_.

 

 

 

Originally archived [here](http://snowpuppies.dreamwidth.org/320222.html).


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